Cherished Enemy

by Patricia Veryan

  Rosamond’s pretty mouth fell open. She had supposed in a nebulous kind of way that Charles must have come by the cyphers because of some accident—some capricious whim of fate. Staring at the rather shy smile on the face of the man her father judged a weak-kneed milksop, she gasped, “Oh … Lud!”

  * * *

  For more than a quarter of an hour they talked, the men patiently answering Rosamond’s questions, their words quiet and spoken without bravado, yet painting such a picture that she was increasingly awed by the courage of those who strove to help the fugitives, and by the dauntless pride that had brought Robert Victor MacTavish back here to serve his fellow Jacobites, heedless of the risk to himself.

  At length a silence fell. The two young men watched Rosamond’s tear-streaked face, but her own eyes were fixed upon scenes of long ago. Merry Christmas parties with the Singletons; long lazy summer days on the river, or picnics under shady trees in the golden afternoons; and always the four of them—Charles and Deborah, herself and Hal. Days full of shared laughter and teasing and plans for the future. Hal had been so good-natured when Charles had teased him about the rather gloomy old house that was his birthplace and which they would probably occupy after their marriage. “No such thing,” he would say with a smile playing about his generous mouth. “We shall build a brand-new house, eh, my lovely Rosa? None of your old manor houses for us! No draughts or creaks or smoking fireplaces. We’ll have lots of windows, and even a fine new stove for Cook! And as few servants as possible, so I may sometimes snatch a moment alone with my wife!” And they’d gleefully furnished the “new house” and decided on the kinds of plants and trees, and just how many dogs they would have. And even, once or twice, they had discussed children and for whom they would be named … And how awed his square bronzed face would become when that topic came up; how reverently his hazel eyes would watch her … Dear Hal … at least he’d had his dreams, even if they’d never become a reality. Her eyes were blurred again. She dabbed the damp handkerchief at them. “I want to—to help you,” she said over the lump in her throat.

  “What?” thundered Victor, staring at her from under frowning brows.

  Charles argued, “You cannot be serious. What we do is against the law, Rosa, had you forgot? Against England, I suppose you could say.”

  “I do not see it in—in that light. Not now,” she persisted. “As you yourself said, dearest, the war is over. We do not conspire to harm our country. We seek only to try and help those who are suffering and in need, and I—

  “Will do ab-so-lutely—NOTHING!” snarled Victor.

  Rosamond blinked at him. “But—”

  He seized her by the arms and pulled her to her feet. “Do you think I would allow you to risk yourself in such a way? My God! Have I not brought you into sufficient danger? No, I tell you! Have done with it!”

  “I agree,” said Charles. “Though—”

  “Hal Singleton was dear to my heart,” said Rosamond, gazing up into Victor’s scowling countenance, and quite oblivious of her brother’s attempted intervention. “Charles risks his life for Hal’s sake; Deborah does also, and—”

  “Charles is a man! And Miss Deborah is Hal’s sister. You—”

  “I was to marry him! All my life he was dear to me. Do you think I would stand by and watch my brother and my cousin try to help your people out of fond memory for my betrothed—and do nothing myself?”

  “I appreciate Victor’s interest,” said Charles, looking askance from one to the other, “but I do not see what his opinion—”

  “Holt already suspects you,” raged Victor, still holding Rosamond’s arms and glaring at her. “I will not permit that you further—”

  “MacTavish!” Charles’s voice cut like a knife through that impassioned utterance. Victor gave a start and jerked his head around. “Be so good as to release my sister,” went on Charles.

  “Oh…” gasped Victor, at once relinquishing his grasp. “Gad! My apologies, but—”

  “You are both very kind,” said Rosamond, her lips quivering on the brink of a smile. “But you do not understand…”

  She proceeded to argue her case, and although they tried to dissuade her she remained adamant, her resolution deepened by every glance from a pair of worried long-lashed grey eyes that strove very hard to be harsh and sensible, but in which there lurked fear for her and a tenderness that spoke its message in unmistakable terms.

  And the end of it was that she won her point and was at length taken to the reference table and allowed to look at the vital cyphers.

  “As you see, there are four verses.” Charles pointed to each in turn of the rumpled scraps of parchment, which had been glued to a single larger sheet. “Each segment was carried down from Scotland by a different courier who—”

  Rosamond gave a muffled exclamation and jerked a startled look at Victor. “So that was why you looked so top-lofty when my aunt asked you to be our ‘courier’!”

  He chuckled. “No, did I? I’ll own I was taken aback. I knew your relationship to Charles, and for an instant I thought you and Mrs. Estelle were fellow-conspirators and aware of my identity.”

  Entranced by the dance of laughter in his eyes, Rosamond smiled. Was this how he would look if his life were not constantly at risk? If he were happily on his Welsh farm, say, with somebody to love and care for him? She thought, ‘I have never been to Wales…’ and, flustered, said, “I wish I had been aware. ’Twould have saved me so much of worry and suspicion, and I might not have been so very angry with you, nor—said such dreadful things.”

  “No.” How delectable, thought Victor dreamily, was the deepening pink that tinted her cheeks. He murmured, “But you looked so extreme delicious when you were angry with me, ma’am. Especially when—”

  “We’ve no time for all this chit-chat!” Charles’s harsh interruption brought a dark flush to Victor’s face and jolted him from his foolish lapse.

  “As I was saying, Rosa,” Charles continued, still frowning at Victor, “the couriers were each given a verse in the hope that if one of them was captured, the authorities would have but a small part of the message.”

  Very conscious of the reason for her brother’s vexation, Rosamond asked, “But if all the segments were sent to you, dear, why were you not also given the key?”

  “Because,” said Victor, “Charles had already taken so many risks. Besides which, my people have learned ’tis not wise to venture all our eggs in one basket. A Scot who’d been a colonel on the Prince’s staff and had escaped to France was entrusted with the key. He was to have come back three weeks since. When he failed to appear, Charles managed to get word to Deborah, who was by then in Paris, and she went in search of him. Not to her cousin, as you were led to believe.”

  “My gracious! Where is the gentleman? What do you think could have happened to him?”

  “We know he reached Calais,” said Charles. “After that—” He shrugged. “Deb will find him, if she can.” His eyes twinkled at her. “With Jacques’s help.”

  “What? Cousin Jacques is in this as well?”

  “Jacques has no interest in either side, I think. But he always has had a tendre for Deb, and will do whatever he must to protect her.”

  “God send she finds Crowley,” muttered Victor.

  Charles gave him a thoughtful look. “Be that as it may, we cannot wait any longer. You must go back, my dear fellow. If Holt suspects you—”

  “If he does!” Rosamond interpolated anxiously. “He most certainly does! Robbie—” She blushed hotly. “Oh! I meant, Mr. Mac____ Or should we continue to name you Dr. Victor?”

  “Robbie will do very nicely,” grinned Victor, lapsing again.

  Charles scowled. “But Dr. Victor will do so much better.”

  ‘The point,’ thought Victor, his grin fading, ‘is well taken.’ “Ye’re woefully correct, Reverend Sassenach. And your sister’s in the right of ’t, I fear. I fumbled very stupidly, and unless Holt’s not the man I think him, he has most assu
redly sent off to Whitehall for my nonexistent army record.”

  “You did not fumble!” protested Rosamond. “You’d never have said you were in the army, save to try and protect me from that horrid ensign and his bounty hunters! How were you to know he would run straight away to tell Captain Holt?”

  Charles straightened his shoulders wearily. “What’s done is done, but whether or not Deb brings back Colonel Crowley, tomorrow you must be away, Rob.”

  Stunned, Rosamond thought, ‘Tomorrow…!’

  Victor gave a dismissing gesture. “Treve’s keeping watch, never fear. If things go awry, he’ll give me ample warning. Meanwhile, an extra mind may serve us well. Especially so convoluted an article as the mind of a lady. Somewhere in these verses, ma’am, is the cypher. What d’ye make of ’em?”

  Forcing herself to turn her attention from the dimple in his chin, Rosamond scrutinized the four verses.

  I

  Cattle sleep at night

  Walls of darkness round them.

  Songs of owls afright, but

  Cannot confound them.

  Break of day will brighten.

  Stiff and chill the wind,

  Zealously to waft away

  Bat and elfin-kind.

  Banish every fear, my dear.

  Summer’s almost here.

  II

  Up and down the hill and vale

  Daringly the eagle flies.

  I would give my soul to be

  Soaring past the wind, as he.

  Sorry me.

  You be free.

  She looked up in bafflement. “Good gracious, how silly it all is. It makes no sense.”

  “’Twas not written to make sense,” said Charles. “Only to contain a message. And what we must do is find the key.”

  Again, she peered at the crumpled parchment. The writing of the third segment was almost illegible. “This poor soul must have had a hard journey,” she murmured.

  “Aye, he did that. Read on, lassie,” urged Victor.

  Obediently, she read,

  III

  Odd, how gently they come home,

  Wooing peace once more.

  Riding off they were not so.

  Is it ever thus with war?

  Frequently, it seems mankind

  Terrifies or trembles.

  4

  All is quiet in the city.

  See the pigeons in the square,

  Indignant. Waiting for their corn or bread.

  Is it not strange, and dead?

  Enthralling to see the streets so bare.

  On mansion and hovel drifts snow, so white.

  One will bring food to the pigeons tonight.

  For several minutes Rosamond stared at those four inexplicable verses. Then, looking up and encountering the two pairs of tired eyes that watched her so hopefully, she said, “My poor souls, how exhausted you are. And I, alas, am of no help, for I am too stupid to make head or tail of it.”

  Charles gave a resigned sigh.

  “Never be thinking yourself stupid, Miss Rosa,” said Victor. “If your brother and I look exhausted ’tis because we’ve been dinning our brains ’gainst this conundrum day and night since Friday—and Charles longer than that—and getting precisely nowhere.”

  She bent to pick up Lightning, who was winding himself around her skirts. “You must have made some progress. How much have you tried and rejected?”

  “Our first thought,” replied Victor, perching on the edge of the table as Charles went over to pour them all a glass of wine, “was that the poems described an actual location. A cow-byre, or barn, for instance—near a churchyard, perhaps, since the first stanza speaks of bats and elfin-kind.”

  “Yes!” she exclaimed eagerly, “And see—the second verse refers to a high area—perhaps a mountainous place in Scotland!”

  “No, lass. The treasure is hid somewhere in England.”

  “Oh, Lud! Why?”

  Charles carried over two glasses and handed one to each of them. Returning to take up his own glass, he said over his shoulder, “Because the Jacobites found they couldn’t run the English blockade of the Channel and transport the treasure to France. They were able to get it down to England, believing it would be much easier to ship it from there, from the west coast, if necessary, and thence to France.”

  “Only by that time,” said Victor, taking Lightning and dropping him onto the table, “our brief Rebellion was crushed, and there was time only to conceal the treasure very hurriedly, and not very securely. What we’re trying to do now is find out where it is to be stored so it will be safe until we can make proper distribution.”

  Sipping her wine, puzzling at it all, Rosamond said thoughtfully, “Then—this cypher does not tell where the treasure is? I thought—”

  “So do a lot of people,” muttered Charles, sitting with a weary sigh on the arm of the chair.

  Victor explained, “We know where it is now, Ro____ma’am. What we don’t yet know is where we are to take it, and to whom it is to be entrusted.”

  So a new threat had reared its ugly head. Rosamond quailed as she asked, “You know where it is located, Charles?”

  Victor said quietly, “I know. And I will lead those of us who go to claim it.”

  It was small consolation to have the threat moved from her loved brother only to rest upon Robert Victor MacTavish. Her voice shook noticeably when she said, “But you must leave here, as Charles said, and go back to France.”

  “No, ma’am. Certainly I must leave your home an friend Holt prowls this way. But I shall not return to France until this business is done. ’Tis for my people your brother has risked his life, when, by rights, the entire responsibility should rest with Jacobites. Well, a rebel is here now to accept that responsibility.” His eyes, steady on Rosamond, were speaking a deeper message to her alone.

  She thought, ‘He goes to his death—and he knows it! They will kill him! That handsome head will be on London Bridge, sure as sure!’ It seemed as though a steel lance had pierced her and she was quite unable to speak, but she knew suddenly that whether or not he was an enemy of her king and her country, Robert Victor MacTavish lived by a valiant and honourable code, and the thought of his suffering a traitor’s cruel death was unbearable.

  Watching her white face and big frightened eyes, Victor was almost overpowered by the need to kiss her, and forced his gaze to the parchment again.

  His own heart sinking, Charles said, “We tread a fine line, Rosa, each one of us. Is why I wanted to keep you clear of this.”

  “Yes, dear,” she quavered. “And is that also why you told me those shocking untruths about Dr. Victor’s being a vicious blackmailer, and—and trying to steal Debbie away from you?”

  He replied simply, “I would do more than that to protect you from sorrow.”

  In which case he must have sensed almost at once the strong attraction between her and the Scot. He had weighed her deep love for England and her father against Victor’s chances for survival, or of the promise of a decent life even did he survive. And he had acted to spare her. Just as he should have done … for she did love her country and nothing would induce her to bring grief to dear Papa … She sighed heavily.

  Victor watched the emotions play across her expressive face. “Aye,” he acknowledged with a rueful smile, “’tis a muckle bog, lassie. Your brother was perfectly justified, though I did my best to black his eye for his blackening of my pure character.” With a great effort he wrenched his gaze from Rosamond and said coolly, “To get back to business: Since the third verse hints at no location whatsoever, and the fourth apparently refers to a city, our theory that the poem actually described a certain location was doomed. We tried the next most obvious hope—the first letter of each line. The first stanza properly put a stop to that, and when we tried the ending letters, they were as useless.”

  Charles said, “I put together the first lines of each verse. ‘Cattle sleep at night; up and down the hill and vale; odd, how gently they
come home’—was all right. But then—” He moved Lightning’s tail out of the way and pointed to the first line of the final stanza.

  Rosamond gathered her scattered wits and made herself concentrate on this problem only. She read aloud, “‘All is quiet in the city.’ Oh, dear!”

  “Just so.” Victor smothered a yawn. “From there, we tried every other word, which was a small disaster. Then, every other word from end to beginning. One line finished that attempt.”

  Rosamond pursed her lips anxiously. “There must be hundreds of possibilities. How can you hope to solve the wretched thing? If Debbie is coming tomorrow, I’d think you might as well wait for her.”

  “Very true,” agreed her brother. “Save that we are not sure she is coming tomorrow. Nor that she will have Sir Ian with her. We must keep trying, Rosa. Every minute counts.”

  “Yes, of course.” She shivered. “Perhaps I should build up the fire; it sounds as though the wind has dropped, but it is growing very cold in here.”

  “Would you wish that I close the door?”

  The mild drawl evoked two shocked exclamations and a muffled shriek.

  Victor crouched and spun to face the intruder, his pistol whipping into his hand once more.

  Charles, very white and grim, jerked around and half-whispered, “Fairleigh!”

  14

  “My apologies an I surprised you.” Roland Fairleigh followed up that massive understatement by wandering into the room as though he entered a soirée rather than faced a levelled pistol in the steady hand of a man who very obviously would not hesitate to use it.

  Rosamond was so frightened that she found it hard to breathe. She had confided her mistrust of Victor to this man, never dreaming how deadly the consequences might be. Fairleigh had evidently acted upon his suspicions. To what extent? God send he’d not advised the military! With a shaking hand she opened the nearest book and slid it over the cyphers.

  “No need for that, ma’am, nor for your pistol, Victor,” said Fairleigh easily. “So you’ve all four verses, have you? Well done, by Jove!”